Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  The guards nodded at Marcel us and opened the doors. The gal ery itself was a work of art: tal glass wal s with ethereal curtains fluttering al around.

  The dreamlike quality of the room made the white marble statues seem to breathe and sway. I let go of Hamlet’s hand and roamed around one of Aphrodite, marveling at her milky perfection.

  Hamlet fol owed behind, and I noticed he was looking at me rather than the art. I stopped and cocked my head. “What?”

  “Happy?” he asked, beaming.

  I walked up to him and whispered, “Thank you for this.”

  He shrugged modestly and said, “I know you love great art.” Then he squinted and asked, only half joking, “Do you just love me for my money and power?”

  I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “I love you because you think of doing things like this and you try to make me happy.” I kissed him and continued, “Hey, you’re just some guy who happens to live in my building, right?”

  He laughed appreciatively and added, “But having this al to ourselves is pretty nice.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding, “pretty nice.”

  There was a sudden click-clack, and when I turned I saw Gertrude rushing toward us, silk scarf flapping, giant sunglasses perched on top of her head.

  “Darlings!” she shouted, opening her arms wide.

  “Mother?” Hamlet asked, befuddled.

  “You’re kidding,” I muttered.

  “I knew it was your last day and I thought, ‘Wel , it’s been ages since I’ve been to Florence,’ and I simply had to see what the fuss was al about with this gal ery.” She turned around once and said in faux astonishment, “Fabulous.” Then she took Hamlet by one arm and me by the other and said, “I simply must take you both to lunch now. I heard about a divine little place for pasta.”

  “Pasta? Imagine,” he said slowly. “That’s… um, it’s real y late for lunch.”

  “Dinner then. Shal we?” she asked, and drew us toward the entrance.

  I stopped walking, and my pul ing against her nearly made her trip. “Gertrude, we’re not ready to leave.” She sniffed, her face impassive but for the fire in her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “What she’s saying is—” began Hamlet.

  “I was pretty clear, Hamlet.” My head was light from defying her. It wasn’t my habit, but I was sick of her trying to come between me and Hamlet, which she had been doing since she realized we were back together. “We’re not ready to go.”

  “You might not be, but what about my son? He hates art.” She turned to him and, in her sweetest voice, said, “Keep me company, Hamlet. You know I despise eating alone.”

  He worked his arm out of her grip. “Ophelia wants to stay. We’l catch you back home. Tomorrow.” Her lips curled around her teeth as she said, “Fine,” and clacked out stiffly.

  My hands were shaking from the confrontation, and Hamlet squeezed them. Kissing my cheek softly, he whispered, “She’l get over it. Let’s go find a Donatel a.”

  “Donatel - o,” I corrected.

  He winked at me, and I realized he was teasing. For a guy who professed to not care about art, he knew quite a lot about it.

  Barnardo: Gertrude showed up and ruined your little getaway.

  Ophelia: Yes, she did.

  Barnardo: Is that when you tried to come up with a way to get rid of her?

  Ophelia: I didn’t try to—She was intrusive my entire life.

  Francisco: So you must have hated her.

  Ophelia: No. It was just how it was. To be with Hamlet was to be with Gertrude.

  Francisco: How romantic.

  Ophelia: Not like that. Jesus.

  4

  “How did you feel being left behind when Hamlet went to college?”

  “Honestly, I hated it.”

  Zara laughs. “I can imagine the rumors of other girls didn’t make it any easier.”

  “No, it certainly didn’t.” Ophelia’s eyes flick to the screen behind her, and she relaxes when no photo appears.

  Zara asks, “You and Hamlet began dating when you were almost sixteen, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a long time.” Two young girls in the audience nod at each other, as does Ophelia. “What attracted you to him?”

  “He was funny and fun and smart.”

  “Sexy, too, our viewers would agree.”

  Ophelia lowers her head but doesn’t say anything.

  Zara adds, “As would the folks at Courtier Magazine, who named him Sexiest Bachelor of the Year.” The audience sighs as Zara holds up the cover.

  Zara crosses her legs and leans back. “You and Hamlet broke up a few times.”

  Ophelia nods.

  “Yet you kept getting back together. Why?”

  “We made each other happy… most of the time.”

  Zara raises her eyebrows and asks, “And the rest of the time?”

  “It was complicated.” Ophelia turns quickly and looks over her shoulder. “You’re not going to get Dr. Dave out here to analyze the relationship, are you?”

  Zara laughs. “No, but that’s a great idea. Would you come back?”

  “Uh… we’ll see.”

  After Hamlet finished packing for his sophomore year at Wittenberg Col ege, we sat in the conservatory looking at pictures from our vacation on his camera. I was just recal ing my irritation at Gertrude’s intrusion when Hamlet made the mistake of trying to get me excited about my last year of high school.

  “It’s gonna fly by. Senior year’s awesome.”

  To me, senior year had become like a vacation you’re looking forward to, but when you final y get there, you find out the hotel’s pool is closed and the sights looked better in the brochures. The thing is, I had done most of the great stuff when Hamlet was graduating and, more than anything, I just felt ready to move on.

  “Even if it’s fun and whatever, you know my dad says I can only go to Denmark State after I graduate.”

  “So you’l go there. They’ve got classes, books, parties.”

  “It’s a commuter col ege. Nothing like Wittenberg. Your school is gorgeous. Everyone’s relaxed, hanging out on the quad. And you can practical y smel the money.”

  “And you can’t here?” he asked, his arm sweeping toward the elaborate fountain at the far end of the courtyard. He knew I loved it in that room. The exotic flowers’ perfume fil ed the air, and enormous leaves drooped low across the paths, making it one of the only private public spaces in the castle.

  I shook my head, completely annoyed beyond what was cal ed for. The thought of another year in the castle with Gertrude watching my every move, another year without Hamlet, another year of surveil ance cameras and bodyguards, was getting under my skin. “This isn’t mine.”

  “And Wittenberg’s not mine.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said, getting up angrily to go. Al I could think was that everything I could see was actual y his mother’s. I imagined she would have been hovering at that moment if not for a ladies’ luncheon that she was obliged to attend.

  “Phee, come on,” he cal ed after me. I kept walking, so he gave chase. “I know it’s not the same. It’s a joke.” I spun around, whacking at a large leaf that dared to hang near my head. “It’s not funny to me. Denmark State sucks.”

  “So don’t go there.”

  “The only place I want to go is Wittenberg, and my father won’t let me.”

  “Wittenberg’s a great school. What’s Polonius’s problem?”

  “Duh… you’re there, you idiot. My father wants to keep us apart. It’s what he’s always wanted.”

  “And with good cause,” he said, stepping forward and slipping his hand under my shirt.

  “Jesus, Hamlet,” I said, pushing it away. “Not here.” I looked at the glass conservatory door, hoping no security guard was passing by.

  “You’re so paranoid,” he whispered in my ear.

  A chil ran through my body as he kissed my neck. “Not without reason.” He
smiled that deadly smile and I whispered, “Let’s at least go downstairs,” and grabbed him by his T-shirt.

  As we walked out into the hal way, he asked, “Why do you listen to Polonius? If you want to come to Wittenberg, come to Wittenberg.”

  “You know that’s impossible. My father would cut me off.”

  “So what?”

  “How would I pay for Wittenberg without money?” I asked, punching the elevator button so hard, I broke a nail.

  “I’l pay.”

  I scoffed. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Whose boyfriend pays for her to go to col ege?”

  “Who else is dating a prince?” he asked.

  My mouth twisted into a smile rather against my wil . “Good point, but no. It’d be too weird.” Hamlet shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  The elevator doors opened on Claudius and the king. Though they were silent when the doors opened, it was clear they had been arguing, as they were both slightly red-faced and the king’s hands were clenched awkwardly. “Father!” Hamlet exclaimed, taking his hand off my back.

  “Are you two coming in?” Claudius asked.

  “No, we’l wait,” said Hamlet, looking from one man to the other.

  “Don’t be absurd,” the king said, so we hastened in. “What floor?”

  “Mine,” I said.

  Looking over the top of his glasses, the king asked, “Hamlet, wil you be up this evening? I want to spend some time with you before you go.” The doors opened, and he smiled warmly at Hamlet.

  Hamlet smiled back. “Yeah, sure, Pop.”

  We walked out together, and the door slipped shut behind us. “That was weird,” I said, heading to my room.

  “What?”

  “Your uncle and your dad.”

  “They’ve been real y uptight lately. I asked about it, but my mother just said ‘business.’ She’s been weird, too, but whatever. I’m gone tomorrow, so…” Hamlet flopped onto my bed. “Speaking of classes, what are you taking?”

  “Oh, um, swimming, art history, English with Ms. Wal ace—”

  “She’s a nut.”

  “Yeah, but she loves poetry, so that’l be cool. Uh, stil -life painting, and Math for Poets.”

  “Math for Poets?”

  “Code for idiots. Or an easy A.” I sat on my floor, grabbed a squishy pil ow, and started mushing it around.

  “No science?”

  “You know it’s not required for seniors.”

  “Sounds chal enging.”

  “Screw it. I figure going to that lame col ege means I’m not meant to do much with my life, so I won’t bother trying.”

  “Taking those classes, you won’t need to.”

  I’m going to interrupt and be honest here: The thing with Denmark State was my fault. I remember the fateful day early in the summer when my father had stood waiting for me with a large envelope in his hands.

  “This arrived today,” he had said. “It’s a letter of invitation to start Wittenberg a year from now.”

  “Oh my God!” I had shrieked, grabbing the letter—handwritten by the dean and signed by the provost—and reading the delicious words about how thril ed they were to offer me a place in their future freshman class.

  My father had pul ed the papers down, so I could see his angry eyes. “You aren’t applying there. Why are you getting letters from them?”

  “Actual y, I did. Talk to them, I mean. I’ve been recruited.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they know I’m a straight-A student in al advanced courses.”

  “And Hamlet’s girlfriend. It’l look good for them in the papers.”

  “That’s not the only reason, Dad.”

  He had grabbed the letter and envelope out of my hands and thrown them on the counter. “Wel , you’re not going.” I had crossed the room and started drying the spil ed orange juice that was seeping into the middle of the page. “I have to, Dad,” I said, preparing myself to unleash the secret I’d kept for months. “I don’t plan on applying anywhere else.”

  “Why would you do such a foolish thing?”

  “It’s not foolish. It’s an incredible—”

  “You can go anywhere but Wittenberg.”

  I stood for a second, trying to process what he was saying, and then my anger began to pop. “You never care about what I want.”

  “Not when what you want is shortsighted and irresponsible. I’m not letting you go to school with him.”

  “This isn’t about Hamlet.”

  My father had scowled at the half truth. “Then you’l go to State,” he had said, before tucking his reading glasses in his pocket and disappearing into his study.

  I felt like I had no choice. Part of me knew I could apply to other schools, but I hadn’t researched any others and was so pissed about the whole thing that I didn’t plan to. And, more important, I figured if I stayed in Elsinore, I could at least see Hamlet whenever he came home.

  But now, ready to begin my senior year with a loser schedule that my father didn’t even know about—one that would take me out of the running for any competitive col eges if I changed my mind about going—I was freaked out but too stubborn to do anything about it. And having Hamlet disapprove didn’t make it easier.

  I punched the mushy pil ow hard. “I don’t see the point of even going to col ege. I don’t know what I want to major in or what I want to be someday.”

  “What do you think you might want to be?”

  “I don’t know.” I rol ed up a magazine and started tapping at my head with it. He took the magazine away and rubbed my shoulders. I relaxed under his touch. Quietly, I admitted, “I just want to be with you.”

  “You must want more than that. That’s pathetic.”

  I pul ed away. “Thanks. I thought you’d think it was a compliment.”

  “It kind of is but, Jesus, I’m not that great. Why not pursue art or—”

  “Whatever.” I grabbed back the magazine and started flipping through it.

  “Phee,” he said. “Ophelia, come on.”

  I didn’t look up but offered, “Why don’t you go hang out with your mommy? Or maybe both of us are simply too pathetic to be graced with your presence these days.”

  “I can’t believe this is how you want to spend your last day with me.”

  He grabbed his camera and walked down my hal to the elevator. I took a deep breath and chased after him. He didn’t turn around even when I was right behind him.

  In my most conciliatory tone, I asked, “Hey, let’s just go out, okay? Get you back in time to hang with your dad?” He paused a moment, then stretched his hand out behind him. I took it and he pul ed me around in front of him.

  “Can my mom come?” he joked.

  I swatted at him, and the elevator arrived. This time, it was empty.

  The next morning, he was set to leave. I was getting ready for our official public good-bye when Hamlet surprised me by coming to my apartment. My father was stil home when Hamlet walked in. They shook hands, and my father wished him wel . I was just about to be relieved that they hadn’t irritated each other when my dad looked at his watch and said, “You two are expected downstairs in five minutes. People count the faults of those who keep them waiting.”

  Hamlet rol ed his eyes as my father took his coffee into his study and shut the door.

  “I wanted a minute alone with you,” Hamlet said, taking a few strands of my hair and pushing them behind my shoulder.

  As much as I wanted nothing more than to hang out with him on the couch al day, the choice wasn’t mine to make. “We should go.”

  “I know, but I just wanted to say… God, there’s so much. This summer was…”

  “What?” I asked.

  He opened his mouth, but then closed it again. I waited for him to finish, hoping it was going to be sweet and romantic and as perfect as he’d been for weeks, so I was disappointed when he smirked and asked, “So, do I look rea
dy for my public?” No one could pul off effortlessly devastating like him. Damp blond hair tucked behind his ears, slightly wrinkled linen shirt, board shorts just below his tan knees. I sighed despite myself even as he did a mock catwalk. He stuck his sunglasses on his head, took my hand, and led me to the elevator.

  “Wel … I don’t know.” I wrinkled my nose. “Too bad you didn’t get the looks in your family.” He laughed. “You know I love this,” I said as I ran my palm down the length of his linen-covered chest, “but that can’t be the outfit your mom had the stylists pick for you.”

  “I decided to take off the suit.”

  “You should have come down earlier. I would have taken it off for you.”

  He smiled and said, “You’re wicked.”

  “Only because you made me that way.”

  He put his arms around me. “What am I gonna do without you?”

  “Not a whole lot, I hope,” I said, squeezing his cheeks between my hands.

  When we got downstairs, my father’s secretary, Reynaldo, was waiting with his arms crossed and his lips pursed. As he hurried to Hamlet’s side, Reynaldo slicked back the few remaining wisps of hair on his shining head and said, “Stormy Somervil e is waiting with her cameraman at the top of the steps. She’s going to ask a question or two, then you kiss chastely.”

  Hamlet snickered. “Does that mean no tongue?”

  I elbowed his ribs.

  Reynaldo cleared his throat and wiped his head again. “Then Ophelia waves briefly and comes back inside. Is that clear?” We both nodded.

  I smiled wryly and stood on my toes to whisper in Hamlet’s ear. “If you stick your tongue down my throat, I’l kil you.” I pinched his butt and put on my public smile.

  Laughing, he threw one arm around my shoulder and the other hand in the air. The crowd roared as we walked outside. Dozens of flashes went off.

  Spread across the steps were mostly teen girls with their mothers. Many held handmade signs with slogans like “Don’t go, Prince Charming” and

  “Elsinore’s a snore without you.” A few held Courtier Magazine’s Sexiest Bachelor of the Year issue with Hamlet’s photo emblazoned on the front. As often as I had posed for these photo ops, there was stil a part of me that found them amusing and thril ing.